Rule Number 118
by Wofl
Summary: With their superior powers of persuasion, a young Dean and Sam go on a hunt with their father, each with their own personal agendas for tagging along. Trouble is, things don't go quite as planned. Gen. PG13. Wee!Chesters. Hurt!Dean. Hurt!Sam


I've been sitting on this idea for a while. I'm making slow but steady progress on it, but right now, I'm looking for a little feedback, cause I'm not sure that the direction I'm going in is one I want to be in. So any thoughts, con-crit, suggestions would be much appreciated. Thanks:D

* * *

John tries to keep the job a secret, but Dean is fifteen now, and more interested in hunting than in schooling. Really, it is inevitable that the newspaper clippings are discovered. 

He packs his things before dawn and writes a note, creeping down the stairs to leave it where his boys will be sure to see it. Better to leave without a goodbye, this time. Dean will be mad that he isn't included and Sam just hates it when he leaves. Not that he says anything. He just gets this distant look about his eyes – gazes at John as if it could be the last time and goes quiet. It's unsettling (probably because it i could /i be the last time). It's just easier this way.

He reaches the kitchen and freezes. They're both sitting at the table, duffles packed and at their feet, a news article positioned purposefully on the table. They look up as one when he enters the room. Dean holds the news article up and quirks an eyebrow, but it's Sam that speaks up first.

"Dad, you _cannot_ go to Six Flags without us." He stands up, hands finding his hips in a typical moody pose. He's getting really good at those, lately. "That's like...illegal or blasphemous or something."

_Blasphemous?_ Jesus. John thinks about how proud Mary would be to see how bright Sam is, his vocabulary far exceeding the expectations of a normal eleven year old. Not that Sam has ever really been normal. John wonders who taught him that particular word.

"Come on Dad, please?" Sam drags out the 'please' like it's going out of style. He pouts out his lower lip, another thing he's getting eerily good at and fuck. John makes the mistake of making eye contact and now he's screwed. Puppy eyes. John i hates /i the puppy eyes. They're just not _fair_, dammit. He'll have to get Dean to tell him his secret one of these days, as he's the only one with any semblance of resistance against them. And even then, only sometimes. "I'm tall enough to go on all the rides. I looked it up! You _have_ to bring us."

God, that's exactly why John does not want them along. A theme park where a poltergeist has taken up residence and enjoyed causing fatal freak accidents is the _last_ place he wants to bring two rambunctious boys. Because bringing them, only to forbid them from going anywhere near the rides is just cruel. It's better if they don't know about it at all; then they can't be sore about missing out. Well, the jig is up now.

"Daaaaad," Sammy says. He's standing right in front of John now, peering not so far up at him. Damn those eyes.

"A little help here Dean?" John asks, turning a consternated gaze to his older son. If there is one thing John shamelessly turns to Dean for help with more often than anything else, it's making Sam see reason in John's seemingly heartless actions.

Dean just looks at him, deadpan. No help today, apparently.

"Sorry Dad, I saw the case for for this one," he says, almost cautiously. It's the way he always speaks when he thinks he's potentially toeing the line - usually something Dean avoids at all costs.

John sighs. Scuffing at the truth, is more like it this time around. John had hoped that Dean wouldn't figure it out, even if he had known such a thing wasn't likely. Damn kids are too bright for their own good. Both of them.

"What's on your mind, Dean?"

"Job's dangerous, Dad. Shouldn't go it alone." Precise and to the point. That's the hunter talking.

John scratches his head and slumps his shoulders. There is a reason he had wanted to leave unannounced. Just because he is being reckless, doing a two man job solo doesn't mean he should ask his damn _kids_ to back him up. Not on this one, not where the potential for easy distraction is so great. They're still boys after all, when you take away the weapons and the responsibilities John has dumped on their shoulders.

But John has also grown to have faith in Dean. The times he's come through and proved himself efficient and capable in the past year alone is enough to make it obvious that he i should /i bring him along.

"It's a two man job and you know it, Dad."

Loathe though he is to admit it, when Dean thinks something is important enough to question his father, he usually isn't wrong. They look out for each other. John would never impugn Dean's abilities and instincts so much as to ignore his son's concerns, despite his age.

John knows, better than anyone, that age has jack shit to do with a hunter's proficiency. Especially Dean's.

"Besides, I figure after we take care of Casper, I can hustle up some extra cash at the midway." Dean grins and leans in closer. "I don't think I'll survive Sam's sulkfest if you leave us here. Come'on Dad, scratch my back, I'll scratch your's."

John grunts and picks up his bag from where he'd let it drop to the floor soon after entering the kitchen. "I'm leaving in thirty seconds. If you're not in the car, you don't go."

The screen door slams behind him, Sam and Dean's simultaneous _yes sir_ s following him out. He doesn't have to tell them twice. By the time he's made sure the trunk is properly stocked, they're both seated and buckled, Sam practically bouncing in the back seat.

"And absolutely _no_ rides until _after_ the job," John declares, tone leaving no room for argument. He eyes Sam in the rear-view mirror. "I mean it."

"Yes sir!" Sam affirms promptly. Not even a direct order can diminish his grin.

Dean just smiles at his father across the front seat as if to say _you know I'm not that stupid._

Yeah, John knows. He claps a hand on Dean's shoulder, giving him a gentle shake and a nod before starting the car. As they pull out of the driveway, Dean paws through the shoe box of cassette tapes. Soon the lilting strains of The Rolling Stones – one of the few bands they can all agree on – helps them to greet the highway and the dawn.

--

Sam's enthusiasm - curbed slightly during the fourteen hour drive - doubles when the towering skeletal structures of the tallest rides scale the horizon, jutting above the tree line like bones poking through skin. The last of the day's light is waning fast; the sun drooping sleepily near the edge of the earth. The Stones have long since played through and have been replaced by one tape after another. The three of them have taken it in turns to choose which tape graced the next stretch of monotonous miles.

Sam is the one who has chosen Nirvana – a band Dean claims to hate and yet, he mysteriously knows all the words to_ Pennyroyal Tea_. The song is lost beneath the incessant babble that starts up the instant he spots the highway signs advertising _thrills and family fun._

He chatters all the way to the motel, only to slump onto the bed with a silent, pouting glare when his father informs Sam that he will not be accompanying the rest of his family that night when they sneak into the park after hours to take out the poltergeist. He doesn't talk the rest of the night except to snarl that he's not hungry when dinner arrives in the form of ordered-in pizza

He pouts through the entirety of _Return of the Jedi _when Dean finds it on a movie channel and offers to watch it with him. And when it gets late enough that John and Dean start gathering up what they'll need for the hunt, he simply crosses his arms and slumps lower onto the bed. He keeps looking at his father with wounded disdain and at Dean with pleading eyes as he watches the pair of them move around the room.

His silent request for Dean to stick up for him, convince their dad to bring Sam along eventually turns into a betrayed frown when Dean shakes his head surreptitiously and starts avoiding Sam's gaze. And Dean was supposed to be on _his_ side today.

This is beyond unfair, he thinks.

He gives up even bothering to try soon after. A great sigh heaves itself out of Sam's lungs and he curls up underneath the covers, burying his face in the pillow. He tries not to listen to the noises his father and brother make as they go about their final preparations and get ready to depart. It seems like forever and no time at all before the strained silence is broken.

"We should only be a couple hours," his father tells him, one hand on the doorknob. "Check the salt lines and lock the door behind us. Keep your cell phone on."

"Yes Sir," Sam mumbles miserably into the pillow, direct orders forcing him grudgingly out of his silence.

The only sounds after that is the squeak of the door as it swings open and his dad mutters a _be careful_ before disappearing into the dark outside.

Curiosity gets the better of him when he doesn't hear the door close behind them. He looks up to see Dean still standing in the doorway, staring back at him, face softened.

"Sammy, I promise, after we sort this out, I'll take you on every friggen ride in the park, okay?" Dean sounds apologetic and Sam regrets making Dean feel guilty for Dad's decision. It isn't Dean's fault, after all.

"You promise?" the younger asks, not because he doubts his brother's word, but because it is an indicator that his underlying apology has been noted and accepted.

"Yeah, Sport, I promise."

Sam grins. "You're the best, Dean."

"I know," Dean cocks his head, lips curling up at the corners. Sam thinks about telling Dean to mind his hubris – his word of the day last Tuesday, and he hasn't had a chance to use it yet – but he figures the meaning would be lost on Dean. Besides, his brother really needs to go. Sam doesn't want him to get in trouble for holding Dad up.

"Hurry back, Dean," he says softly, turning away and moving to check that the thick layer of salt spread across the window sill remains unbroken. "Be careful."

"I always am," Dean murmurs back, turning to go. Sam watches from the corner of his eye as the door swings closed behind his brother's retreating back, only to be pushed open again before it can latch shut completely. "And Sam? Don't be mad at Dad, okay? He has his reasons."

The door closes again before Sam can respond. He sighs and crosses over to the door, sliding the deadbolt into place and doing his best not to worry. Because seriously? There's no reason to, really. Dean fast and strong and clever and Dad is invincible and when you put them together, there isn't really any bad guy that stands a chance (except maybe one and they don't talk about that) so worrying is kinda pointless, right?

Regardless, fear sits quietly in the motel room with the youngest Winchester, that night. His only companion and Sam does his best to ignore it as he suffers through some of the longest hours in his life thus far. And he's had some pretty long hours.

--

Dean comes back cradling his right arm and looking surly. Dad looks gruff and moderately pissed off. So okay. That tells Sam that there are no broken bones. That's a relief. But upon closer inspection, Sam can see that Dean is pale, freckles standing out across the bridge of his nose, lips pulled into a thin tight line. He's in obvious pain, though Sam knows his brother well enough to understand that Dean will never reveal the true extent of how severe his suffering may be.

Sam has learned to gauge his brother's condition based on signs other than word of mouth. Whatever Dean tells him on the subject cannot be trusted anyway.

Sam eyes his brother appraisingly, taking in his pallor and the hunch of his shoulders, the way he does not enter the room fully, merely slumps against the wall just inside the doorway and gazes across to where Sam is sitting.

"All right there, Sam?" he asks, a hint of something that should be a smile but is really more a grimace pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Me?" Sam asks, appalled. "What about you? What happened Dean?"

"Not now, Sam," his father cuts in before Dean can open his mouth to reply. "Dean, over here. Now."

Dean draws in a sharp breath and nods, hauling himself fully upright and moves obediently over to the bed, sitting where his father points. John holds out a demanding hand, the first aid kit already open at his feet and Dean offers up his injured arm for inspection and assessment.

After that, Dean goes quiet, making no more noise than a soft grunt when John gently flexes his wrist to test the extent of the damage. Quiet. Which means it's at least a four on the Winchester Scale of Pain and Injuries.

Sam eases off the bed and creeps closer, peering over his father's shoulder, careful not to block the light. Dean's wrist is already swollen and starting to discolor. Definitely a sprain. From the looks of it, a pretty bad one. And his trigger finger is bent at an odd angle. Definitely broken. A deep gash rents a jagged path between his thumb and forefinger. The cut is anything but clean, looks like something caught the skin and tore it open. Sam can't really tell, there's too much blood to be sure.

Dean is quiet as John methodically cleans the blood away from the wound and inspects it to determine how deep it is. Sam holds his breath as his father pulls out the surgical thread and a needle, but obeys without question when his father tells him to fetch the half-empty bottle of whiskey from his duffle bag. It's not for John, Sam knows. It's for Dean.

Winchester medical procedures are brutal and pitiless. Sam thinks that Rambo would probably cry like a little bitch if he were to ever be subjected to a round with John and his dreaded needle. Or worse yet, his pliers.

Dean is pale when Sam hands him the bottle, uncapped. He tilts it back and chugs until he can't anymore, breaks off with a wet cough, and wipes his mouth on the crook of his elbow. He closes his eyes for a minute, takes a few steadying breaths, and then opens them again, giving his father a nod.

John offers no hesitation, just swats at the wound with an alcohol swab to sterilize it and sinks the needle into Dean's flesh. Up and down, in and out, forming small black x's that are a bit crooked, but tight and neat and probably won't leave noticeable scars. His father has had a lot of practice. Dean's lucky this time, he only needs three stitches, and then John is tying a knot and cutting the thread.

"You alright?" John asks when he's finished. Dean, still pale, takes another swig of whiskey, grunts, and nods.

"Good," his father replies, "because this is gonna hurt."

Without further warning he grips Dean's finger and bends it back into the proper position with a pop that makes Sam's stomach churn. Dean yelps and Sam winces sympathetically. "Shit, Dad," Dean says, when he catches his breath. "Warn a guy, would ya?"

"Woulda been worse if you were waiting for it," John says simply, splinting the broken finger and taping it, along with the neighboring finger to keep it in the right place. When he's done with that, he gets up from the bed, crossing the room to retrieve an ice pack from the mini-fridge. He tosses it to Dean, who abandons the now empty whiskey bottle in order to catch it one handed.

"That's it for now. Ice that wrist for a while and then we'll wrap it when the swelling goes down." Dean moves to comply, scooting back on the bed to lean against the headboard and hissing as he eases the cold pack onto his wrist. John shrugs on his jacket, and, much to Sam's horror, grabs the keys to the Impala.

"You're leaving?" Sam protests, voice high and strained.

"Job's not finished," John grunts. "Won't take long. I'll be back soon."

Sam doesn't get a chance to reply because John is gone and it's not like he could have stopped him anyways. Whatever. There are more pressing matters at hand than John proving, once again, what a crappy father he is capable of being.

"Dean." Sam clambers up onto the bed beside his brother, pressing close, checking him over for other injuries.

"Hey Sammy," Dean says, the words accompanied by a loopy grin and he doesn't even protest Sam's poking and prodding, even goes as far as to tilt his head in compliance when Sam grabs his face in order to check his pupils for signs of a concussion. And that...that's just friggen _weird_ because Dean is never complaint to Sam's mother henning. Not any more than Sam is compliant to Dean's. Necessary exams are carried out only begrudgingly in the Winchester family.

It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask Dean if he's feeling okay, but _duh_ of course he's not okay. Just one look at his mangled hand is enough to tell anyone that. But that doesn't explain why he's acting so strangely. Or why Dean is suddenly resting his head on Sam's shoulder and informing Sam that he's _glad you're here_ and that _it would suck if you weren't_ and that Sam is not so geeky, really; pretty cool, actually. Sometimes.

Sam leans back and away from Dean, wondering if maybe he's possessed or actually did suffer a knock to the head, but gets distracted by a hard lump pressing uncomfortably against his knee. He fishes around in the heap of blankets and comes up with the empty whiskey bottle and it suddenly occurs to Sam that his brother just downed almost half of a fifth of whiskey by himself in a relatively short amount of time. Dean is not possessed or concussed, merely drunk.

Well, there are worse states he could be in, Sam supposes, and allows his older brother to rest his head against his shoulder until the older boy falls asleep.

--

Sam lets Dean sleep propped up against him until the ice pack is no longer cold. He tells himself that he doesn't want to risk jarring Dean's hurt wrist by laying him down, but really it's because he's quite enjoying the close proximity to his brother. It's soothing, to know he's safe, to have actual physical _proof _of that fact. He checks on his brother's injury every few minutes to ensure that the swelling is indeed going down, if only marginally. And when it seems the cold pack is no long any help, he nudges Dean into consciousness.

Dean grumbles, sleepy and still drunk, but complies amiably enough when Sam urges him to sit up against the headboard. The younger slips off the bed and retrieves the first aid kit. Carefully he removes the compress and fishes out an ace bandage.

"Better or worse than before?" he asks, pulling Dean's hand into his lap and flexing the wrist slowly, carefully. Hating every second in which he causes his brother pain, but knowing that it's a necessary procedure.

"A bit better," Dean says, grimacing at the movement, but he allows it, and he doesn't complain. "Not as bad as I thought it was gonna be."

Sam makes a tiny humming noise in the back of his throat as he begins wrapping Dean's wrist. "God, Dean, your a mess," he says, pulling the stretchy material tight, around and around, "what happened out there?"

"Well," Dean begins, speaking through clenched teeth, "when we got to the park, everything was closed down for the night, completely empty, once we took out the night watchman..."

* * *

TBC. 


End file.
